


The Chosen One

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Consensual Sex, First Time, Happy Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1337119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's decided to expand his experiences. Being Sherlock, he's rather practical and methodical about it. Lestrade's been chosen for the honors. While that's a classic kitschy premise, it's not a particularly kitschy story. Sex, mutual, Sherlock's first time with another man. Greg's a good lover. It still gets angsty in a few patches. Intimacy can do that to you. </p><p>This is written for RavenMorganLeigh on two grounds; our recent dialog in a comments thread left the "all the 'ships" idea open, and she's Sherstrade where I'm not. Those two facts suggested that maybe I should write a Sherstrade with her in mind. I doubt it went where she herself would have chosen, but I've tried to honor the characters and the 'ship with her in mind.</p><p>It's explicit, though not obsessively so. While one needs little imagination to know what's going on, I do not attempt to evoke every sound, smell, sight, motion, etc. Given the rarity of my writing explicit sex in the first place, obsessive is not to be expected.  It has a happy outcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chosen One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RavenMorganLeigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenMorganLeigh/gifts).



 

 

Evening was falling when Lestrade and his team finished up on the Hounslow case. Lestrade let everyone off duty, collected his coat, and took the lift down to the lobby with Sherlock beside him. They both prowled out to the pavement, Lestrade planning on flagging a taxi and heading home. He wasn’t expecting Holmes to…socialize. Holmes generally didn’t. And, yet—

“Pint?”

Holmes stood, tall and rangy as ever in that eternal damned coat of his. He’d changed since his “death,” the murder of Magnussen, and the events following. His life, too, had changed. Among other things, John Watson was no longer quite such a constant companion, or Lestrade knew Sherlock wouldn’t be inviting him out for a beer. Still, it had been a long day.

“Yeah, sure. The Feathers?”

“Sure.” Sherlock turned with a swirl of coat, and sloped down the pavement. Lestrade gave a crooked grin and headed after him. Trust Holmes to take the lead…as though Lestrade couldn’t find The Feathers perfectly well after years working at NSY.

The pub was filling up, evening customers slipping in, greeting each other, claiming tables. Holmes gestured for Lestrade to grab a table while he himself went up to the counter and ordered their pints. He joined Lestrade, putting a tall dark pint glass in front of his friend, while keeping an even darker pint for himself.

“Seemed like the sort of night you’d ordinarily order Newcastle,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, I would,” Lestrade agreed. “Nice of you to get me one.”

“Didn’t. Got you a Trappist Ale. Similar. Stretch your palate a bit, though,” Holmes said, smirking.

“Ta ever-so,” Lestrade said, torn between annoyance and amusement. “And yourself? Pushing your own boundaries, are you?”

“Unlikely,” Holmes said. “The Feather’s not offering anything I’ve not tried before.”

“I believe they’ve got a special reserve of Budweiser Lite for American clientele.”

The look Holmes shot Lestrade was his reward. “There’s a difference between expanding one’s tastes and debasing them, Lestrade.”

“I wouldn’t know, cupcake.” Lestrade took a cautious sip of the Trappist ale, and nodded, contemplatively. “Not bad. Not ‘alf bad.”

“You think I’d have chosen it for you if it were? Consider me insulted,” Holmes grumbled.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Smart arse. You picked well. It’s a compliment, you prat. I like it.”

“Enough to trust my taste in other areas?”

Lestrade sighed. “When don’t I? Come on, Holmes. I let you drag me around like a pup on a lead. I’m a laughing stock. A better question would be when will I stop trusting you?”

Holmes cocked his head, considering, then made solid, almost fierce eye contact with the older man. “Very well. When _will_ you stop trusting me? How far would I have to go before you’d say, ‘No farther’?”

Lestrade shivered. Sherlock’s eyes were intense, his body tight as a strung bow. “Seriously?”

“Quite.”

Lestrade licked his lips, tasting the sweet-bitter flavor of the ale. All sorts of possibilities flickered through his mind. After a while he said, “You know the main limits. I won’t knowingly do wrong for you, sunshine. Closest you’ll make me go is ‘lesser of two evils,’ with no other way out. That answer your question?”

“Not really.” Sherlock’s eyes were still fixed on his, the changeable hazel-blue a sullen, smoldering green that evening. “We’re not talking crime and punishment, ‘sunshine.’ More like double-dast-dare. How far could I lead before you stopped following?”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed, and he studied the younger man carefully. “You’re in a mood tonight, aren’t you? A right mood…”

A minute tick of the head, flick of a brow, shift of a shoulder all added up to a terse and testy shrug. “I believe I’m being provocative.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that. But what are you trying to provoke? Answer me that one, eh?”

“What is usually meant by the term ‘provocative?’”

Lestrade’s brows shot up. “Oh.” Sherlock’s chin rose, daring Lestrade to reprimand him. Lestrade sighed, then. “Hush, now, hush. No worries. Just not anything I expected, yeah? John was always so clear about..”

“John and I are not lovers…nor ever have been,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade considered, drinking his ale as he did so. After a time he said, “Yeah. Ok. But did you think you would be? Did _you_ think you would?”

Sherlock’s eyes were suddenly hesitant…unsure. “I…” He stopped, then shrugged, returning his gaze to his ale. “It’s rather a moot point, now, isn’t it?”

Lestrade drank again, pondering the situation. “Why now?”

Sherlock’s mouth flicked. “So much has changed. Seemed like a good time to try new things. Review old assumptions.”

“Why start with this?”

“Who said this is the start?”

“Ah.” He glanced sidewise. “Got up to much of interest while you were abroad the last few years?”

“Not then,” Sherlock said, primly.

Lestrade considered. “Since Magnussen?”

Sherlock smirked—a tiny, wicked smile that indicated volumes of experiments successfully endeavored.

Lestrade gave a shout of laughter, and nodded, grinning. “Good on you, lad. High time. Your brother know?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Probably. Not that it’s any of his business. He can hardly lecture.”

“What? The Holy Abbot of the Chaste and Sanctified Weskit and Trou? He can _always_ lecture.”

Sherlock’s brows flicked high, then. “Well. That answers another question I had. Mycroft’s weskit may be sanctified—but I assure you, it’s not likely to be chaste. I thought you knew.”

“Huh? Me catch Mycroft out in secrets? I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“No. I thought perhaps you… _knew_. First hand, as it were.”

Lestrade stared, then shook his head. “Hadn’t ever considered it an option, if you must know. I won’t say your brother’s never unbuttoned a bit around me. But not that far, and not that way, if you catch my drift.”

“You’re within his type.”

“His reputation among his people is…saintly,” Lestrade said. “I’d say he avoids fishing in home waters.”

“Mmmm. That would explain it,” Sherlock said. “I was almost sure…”

“Wrong for once.”

“That does simplify things,” Sherlock said, seeming cheered. “No possibility of invidious comparisons.”

The thought of being lover to even one Holmes Boy was unsettling. The fantasy of being lover to both? Enough to make Lestrade finish his ale and ponder getting another. Or even a shot of whiskey. “That really would be living dangerously.”

Sherlock sniggered. “Separately…perhaps. Simultaneously…I’d be tempted to take out life insurance on you. Survival would be questionable.”

“The two of you would either tear me in two fighting over me or kill me and throw me off a bridge so neither of you could have me.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, and his eyes narrowed and went dark. “Yessss. Or…” He paused, thinking, then gave that dangerous little corner-flick of a smile, there and gone, hinting at danger. Then he clearly dismissed whatever he was thinking. He pushed his empty glass to the middle of the table and rose, tucking his scarf into a lark’s head knot as he did. “Yours or mine?”

Lestrade considered. “Yours,” he said. Sherlock barely knew Lestrade’s place, and Lestrade suddenly found himself wanting to keep it that way. If he was going to risk this, he wanted a safe line of retreat and a fortress to barricade if it all went pear-shaped. He watched as Sherlock spotted a cab circling, no doubt waiting for customers from the pub to leave. Soon they were rumbling across London, seated side by side in the back of the taxi.

Lestrade waited, wondering if Sherlock was going to make a move while they were in transit. He didn’t, instead chattering about each detail of the day’s case that had led to his victorious conclusions.

Vanity, Lestrade thought, made Sherlock a comparatively easy conversational companion. Drop in a leading question, throw in an admiring adjective or two, add a chorus of “brilliant,” or “amazing,” and Sherlock managed all the rest, really. Lestrade had guessed that even before John Watson had arrived, but his pride had kept him from using it very often, until he saw how much simpler life was when John applied liberal doses of adulation to lubricate the wheels of Sherlock’s ego. After, Lestrade had tended to fall back on it a bit more often. He wasn’t a masochist, after all.

They got to Baker Street. Sherlock paid the cabby, and they slipped inside.

“Home, dear?” Mrs. Hudson called, from inside her flat. She came to the door and peeked out, a flash of orange and magenta robe showing. “It’s late, love.”

“Lestrade and I went out for drinks,” Sherlock said. “He’s a bit pickled. Thought he’d doss on the sofa.”

“That’s nice, dear,” she said. “It’s good when friends take care of each other, isn’t it? Can I bring you up some tea and biscuits?”

“Not tonight,” Sherlock said. “We’re working.”

“Working?”

“Cold case we’re trying to resolve,” Sherlock said. “Don’t be upset if there’s a bit of noise.”

“Noise?”

“Thumps. Moans. Reenacting the crime,” Sherlock assured her.

Lestrade fought back sniggers. The man had brass balls, that was certain. Mrs. Hudson, though, appeared cleverer than Sherlock realized. She murbled something daft and clueless—but when Sherlock swept regally up the stairs, she tipped Lestrade a very salty wink, then quickly mimed “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” before closing her door, grinning mischievously.

Baker Street seemed much the same without John. Mainly messier…without the little doctor imposing his military appreciation of cleanliness and order, Sherlock tended to let his chaos sprawl somewhat wider than usual. Other than that, though, it was much of a muchness. Probably a nightmare to décor-conscious folks, but to Lestrade’s bachelor eyes it approached heaven. Properly broken-in furniture, enough mess that the occasional spill wouldn’t be noticed, enough order that he wasn’t quite afraid that the place would go up in flames the next time Sherlock lit the fireplace—as he was doing already. His black-gloved hands adjusted the level of the gas flames. Then he rose and stood, back to the fire, straight and still, looking at Lestrade.

For the first time that night, Lestrade could see nervousness in those eyes. Uncertainty…

“You’ve not done this before. It’s not one of the things you did while you were away.”

Sherlock shook his head. “There are only three people I’d…trust. Two aren’t possible.”

“Three? John…”

Sherlock nodded. “Not an option. As he’s so quick to point out, he’s not gay. Or bi. Or currently available, even if he were.” He gave a crooked grin. “Mary’s quirky enough she might find a threesome intriguing, but John almost certainly wouldn’t. And if he did, I’m quite sure he’d want to be the minority gender in the triad.”

Lestrade couldn’t hold back a snort of amusement. Yes, he suspected John Watson would be perfectly happy with the classic male fantasy of two women, one man. “Bet he likes lesbian conversion porn.”

Sherlock smiled. “His favorite episode of ‘Coupling’ is the one where Steve tries to justify the artistic merits of ‘Lesbian Spank Inferno.’”

They both laughed.

“Who else would you trust?”

“Why does it matter? Only three. You’re one of only three, Lestrade. Isn’t that enough?”

Lestrade’s curiosity goaded him…but a sense of responsibility had come over him, heavy and sweet and unsettling as hell. He pushed his curiosity aside, saying instead, “You know, the question’s not how far I’ll follow you. Not in this. It’s how far you’ll follow me, isn’t it? My lead, for once.”

Sherlock lifted his chin and looked down his nose. “I’ve done my research. I’m not _ignorant_.”

“Inexperienced, though.”

Sherlock licked his lips, then, nervously. “Inexperienced. Yes.”

Lestrade nodded. He caught Sherlock’s eyes, held his gaze as he stepped into the space between the two chairs by the hearth. “First times should be simple, and safe.” He slipped the blue scarf from its knot, removed it, set it aside on Sherlock’s chair. “No pain that’s more than passing and slight. Nothing happening either of us doesn’t want. You trust me…and I trust you. Right?”

Sherlock nodded, breath going slightly uneven.

“I lead,” Lestrade said.

“And…I follow?”

“Right. Doesn’t mean you submit. Just means you’ve got someone you can count on to show you the way. All right?”

Sherlock nodded. Cautiously he reached up and slid Lestrade’s grey and burgundy plaid scarf from his neck, putting it beside his own. “Like that?”

Lestrade smiled, charmed by the amused glitter in Sherlock’s eyes. He reached down and took Sherlock’s hands, stripping the black leather gloves from them one at a time, then removing his sweeping coat. Sherlock mirrored…then hovered, one hand not quite dropping back to his side.

“It’s all right. It’s not a game like ‘Simon Says.’ You don’t only have to follow, you silly berk.”

Sherlock wetted his lips. Then, hesitantly, he slid one hand behind Lestrade’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Lestrade stepped forward, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s slim waist, stretching up to meet Sherlock’s lips.

“You’re taller than me,” he murmured when they broke away from that first fragile kiss.

“Most of your lovers aren’t?”

“Most of my lovers have been women,” Lestrade said, “and the ones who weren’t…you know, I think they _were_ all shorter. I’m tall enough by most standards. It’s…different.”

“How?”

Lestrade snugged closer. “Just…different. I can’t think of anyone who ever made me feel small…”

Sherlock seemed to do the impossible, growing taller in Lestrade’s embrace, looming… “Smaller?” He nuzzled Lestrade’s hair, blowing softly along the hairline, lips nipping the outer curve of his ear. He gave a strong, fluid pull, pressing them together. “Not…the stronger one for a change?”

Lestrade hovered between the desire to show Sherlock just how much muscle he could respond with—and the equal desire to experience what he’d not consciously experienced before: letting someone else’s muscle and bone hold sway. “Uh…” He swallowed, and turned his face into the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. “If I fought back you’d know it…”

Sherlock gave a deep, breathy chuckle, nuzzling more. “I know. I’ve seen you fight.” He traced a hand down Lestrade’s back: shoulders, ribs, the long arc of the spine, the curve of the lower back, the outward thrust of round buttocks. “You’re not weak. But neither am I.” He shifted, then, swinging them both, tumbling them into his chair in a controlled fall. He held Lestrade tightly against him, then eased one thigh up between Lestrade’s legs, providing both seating and friction.

Lestrade gave a little gasp, unprepared for the sudden switch in leader and led. “Uh… You really did do your research…”

“That…and some of what I learned from my primary female teacher transfers well enough.” He laughed, then—a sudden, soft, unexpected chuckle, free and light and carefree. “She was a good teacher.”

Lestrade couldn’t argue so far. “I’ll have to shift my expectations,” he said. “Move you from beginner to the advanced class. Who was she?”

“A…Woman.”

“I kind of deduced that.”

“Let’s just say I got my first formal lessons from a professional.”

“First _formal_ lessons?”

Sherlock blushed, then—Lestrade could see the pink rise up and flush his face. He mumbled something, ducking head.

“What’s that, sunshine?”

Sherlock shivered. “Found out that faking it is dangerous.”

Lestrade frowned. “Faking it with who?”

Sherlock hunched. “Someone.” He shifted in the seat, rolling until Lestrade was pinned between Sherlock’s body and the arm of the chair. He kissed Lestrade, then—not chaste, but hungry and searching…too fast, too deep, too uncoordinated, his hands roaming restlessly. Lestrade caught them in his own, pulled them until he held them both folded together between them.

“Shhhhhhh. It’s all right. You don’t have to say.” Lestrade took back the lead, leaning in and opening up a new kiss—slower, more tender, lips brushing Sherlock’s, breath tickling damp, soft skin. “Then’s then. This time we do it right, and no grief after. Whatever happened before doesn’t matter now, understand? Not this time.”

For the next quarter hour they did little beyond kiss, nuzzle, and touch. Lestrade could feel Sherlock steady out. Whatever had upset him, he let it go, settling under Lestrade’s hand, giving himself to Lestrade’s lead. When he was sure Sherlock had let go of whatever upset him, he moved his hands to the other man’s collar, and paused. “Yes?”

Sherlock huffed, and nodded. “Yeah. You lead, I follow?”

“Sure.” Lestrade’s fingers eased buttons out of button holes, slipped sleek, dense silk back over slim, bony shoulders. He traced Sherlock’s chest, kissing the dip where neck tendons and clavicles came together over the sternum and the beating heart.

His fingers traced over the livid, dark scars from Sherlock’s recent surgeries. He whistled, a soft, breathy sound. “You’re sure that was intended as a miss, not a hit?”

“Ancient Wisdom of a Chinese Assassin,” Sherlock husked. “What does it mean when an assassin misses? She wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“Doesn’t mean she didn’t almost succeed.”

“Granted, it was close. We’ve debated alternate shots. In retrospect she thinks she should have gone deeper into the liver. She was trying to minimalize damage to any one organ…. I moved.”

“Still…”

“An assassin who’s really trying at that range nails me through the forehead, and finishes with a heart-shot. Bam-bam. No messy question of survival.”

“You like her.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I like her.”

Lestrade sighed. “Your option. Me, I like my friends a bit less inclined to shoot holes in me.” He leaned down, then, until his spine creaked, as he placed kisses along the dark, dented, ropy mass.

“Budge up,” Sherlock said, pushing his shoulder. “My turn.” He rolled them again, pushing Lestrade back into the fat cushion of the chair arm. “Stay still.” His long fingers played with the first button—second button down from the collar, as Lestrade just hated the strangle-hold of a shirt buttoned right up to the top. He rolled his fingers in, dipping them under the edges of the shirt-front, letting the backs tickle through the hair on Lestrade’s chest. Then, one button at a time, he unwrapped him, each button displaying more and more chest, more belly, all the way down past the navel to the waistband of Lestrade’s trousers. Once there he smiled, and his face crinkled with crow’s feet as he brushed his fingers over Lestrade’s erection tenting the cheap polyester. “Good to know you’re really interested.”

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” Lestrade said. He lay quiet, letting Sherlock finish rolling his shirt wide.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock said, contemplatively, as he ran his fingers over Lestrade’s densely haired chest. “Like a silverback gorilla.”

“Callin’ me an ape?” Lestrade snorted, amused.

Sherlock scowled at him. In his most prim, professorial voice he said, “Silverback gorillas are beautiful creatures. Senior members of their family groups, strong, intelligent, wise, graceful. Kind.”

Lestrade huffed, embarrassed, and slipped his hands under Sherlock’s shirt, sliding it from his arms and back. “Forgot to unbutton your cuffs.”

“Here, let me.” Sherlock flipped the buttons, then gave a shimmy, letting the fabric drop away. Then he unbuttoned Lestrade’s cuffs. “Sit up.” He rolled the cloth back, stroking down Lestrade’s shoulders and spine. “Definitely silverback.”

“Doesn’t bother you?”

“Nope.”

They were so different, Lestrade thought. Not better or worse: Lestrade rather liked his own body. It had, he thought, been quite nice in youth, and was quite enjoyable even as he aged. He liked the shape of his muscles, the arch of his shoulders—wide and solid. He even liked the dense hair. But it was worlds different from Sherlock’s.

His partner was almost too thin, with muscles that were slim and hard, whipcord and tendon, with the veins riding high under thin, translucent skin. There were more scars than just the recent chest wound. Stab marks, prior bullet wounds. One clavicle had a slight knot, suggesting it had been broken once.

Lestrade reached out and traced the dark tracks on Sherlock’s forearms. Old ones.

Newer ones.

Sherlock winced as Lestrade found the freshest.

“A few months old,” Lestrade said, calmly. “Six months at most. You’re fair-skinned. They show.”

“I’m not using now,” Sherlock said, defensively.

“Good,” Lestrade said, and slipped from the chair. He put out a hand. “Up you come. Not trying to strip your trousers off with both of us jammed in there.”

“You’re not going to lecture?”

“What point? By now you’ve got to know all the lectures by heart. And you know I hate the stuff. Hate when you’re using. You know we all do. Either you told the truth and you’re not using now—in which case I can only piss you off by preaching. Or you are. In which case…this isn’t going to last. And may not even get us through the night.” He met Sherlock’s eyes. “So. I’ll take your word. Don’t make me wish I hadn’t.”

Sherlock’s face closed, then—lips tight, eyes closed, expression somewhere between hurt and anger and tears. “It humiliates me,” he said, fiercely. “I calculate the doses. I weigh myself. I read the literature. I tell myself that this time I can gamble. And sometimes I’m right. Just…not always. And then someone finds out, and it’s John and the pee-jar and Molly and Mycroft, and I want to tell them that I was responsible. I was. I did the math, I weighed the doses, I tested the content. I did it scientifically. But I know, and they know that in the end I was just another junkie putting it all on the line for one more high.” He sighed, heavily. “It doesn’t matter how scientifically you lie to yourself. In the end, you’re still the slave, not the master.”

Lestrade ran his fingers gently up Sherlock’s forearms. “Can’t outthink it, love. Not that way.”

Sherlock’s eyes stayed shut. Lestrade could see the seep of tears clinging to his lashes. Another man, having seen what he’d seen, learned what he’d learned, would have been angry. Lestrade had seen seasoned cops break out in fury as yet another junkie whined and cried over a failure that seemed obvious to many not trapped in addiction: gambling with addiction was like gambling against the house. The chemistry was against you…even if you were a chemist.

Lestrade, though, knew it was never that simple.

He turned Sherlock’s wrists, forcing the forearms up, and kissed the scars. “I’m not going to help you kill yourself, love. And I’m not going to let you rip me apart, either. Too old not to protect myself if I have to. But—I’m proud of you when you fight it. I’m proud when you find a better answer for yourself.” He pulled the younger man close, not commenting on the soak of tears against his neck or the tightly reined sobs of breath. When Sherlock settled again, he slipped his hands down and unbuttoned his fly, then slipped his thumbs under the waistband of both trousers and pants. A shove and slide and they’d dropped to knee-level, with only slim, lean legs to slow the descent. “Step out, now.”

“Got to kick my shoes off, first,” Sherlock chuckled, still clinging with his face against Lestrade’s neck. He jigged in place, catching the back of one heel with his instep and shucking free, then catching the inner edge of one upper with his toes, and levering the second shoe off. Then socks, shimmied off with nearly no effort. Then a funny little dance, and the trousers were in a puddle on the floor, underwear neatly pooled inside.

“Now you.” He straightened, ignoring the damp tracks on his cheeks. “Shoes?”

Lestrade laughed and kicked them off quickly, and socks as well. “Done, bossy.”

“Good.” Sherlock swept Lestrade’s trousers and underwear off in one smooth sweep, ending up with the fabric draped around Lestrade’s ankles—and Sherlock kneeling on the floor. He looked up at Lestrade. “Is this next?”

Lestrade cocked his head. “Do you want it to be?”

Sherlock shrugged and blushed. “Don’t know.”

“Then…I think it’s not,” Lestrade said. “Too loaded. Too much of a power-play for some people. Not here to make you feel used.” He reached out his hand and helped Sherlock stand. “Bed might be nice, though, right about now. Only so much I want to try in a chair the first time.”

“Fire’s not enough to keep you here?”

“Try lighting another fire, thanks. Bed or sofa?”

Sherlock considered. “Bed.” He considered another moment, then sighed and tipped his head toward his room.

“You were thinking maybe up in John’s old room, weren’t you?”

“Less need to change the sheets after,” Sherlock said. Then, “Too many other issues, though. Baggage.”

“Nothing less likely to improve sex than a heavy-duty might-have-been,” Lestrade agreed.

“Wouldn’t have been,” Sherlock sighed.

“No. Not so long as he sees himself as straight. Even if he’d turned fallen-angel, and slipped with you, you’d have been stuck with a man who doesn’t want to be gay…and doesn’t think he’s gay. Best case he’d think you’d both fallen. Worst case, he’d blame you for ‘making’ him fall.”

Sherlock, who’d been turning down the blankets, straightened and frowned. “You’ve been there.”

Lestrade flinched. “I’ve been John. A long time ago. When I was young and stupid and willing to turn my lovers into telepathic puppet masters forcing me to think dirty thoughts.”

“What changed?”

“Not much. Mainly I grew up. Once I was married and realized I still liked both options, it sort of came clear.”

“Do you think John…”

“I think John sees himself as straight a whole lot more than I did. He’s got more invested. For me it started seeming a bit stupid even before I got married. Labels are easy. Living inside them, though? Hard.” He grinned. “Speaking of which…” He used one of his favorite police moves to drop Sherlock into the sheets, then tumbled down beside him, stroking up the inside of his thigh with an intentionally tickly crawl of fingers that made Sherlock squeal like a baby piglet and ball up. “Let’s see what we’ve got, here.”

He slipped his palm into the knotted ball of Sherlock-limbs, and stroked his belly. “Come on, love, unroll. You look more like a dead spider than a tiggywinkle, y’silly berk. All long legs and elbows. That’s right, stretch out.” He slid against Sherlock’s side, kissing along his clavicle and tracing down the center line of his stomach, until he reached curls and an arching erection. “Mmmm. Yes.” He stroked, letting his hand curl around his lover’s cock. “Nice?”

“Mmmmhmmm.” Sherlock rocked into the caress, an easy, lazy motion. Experienced.

“Done this before, then?”

“Some.”

“That smart teacher of yours?”

There was a pause, then, “Yes.”

“Ah. Not the first time, though.”

“You’re smarter than I thought.”

“That’s because you like telling yourself I’m a moron.”

“You’re not going to ask me who?”

“If you tell me, I’m interested. If you don’t—at the very least, it can wait till either you want to tell me—or I need you to. It’s not like I’m not happily occupied already.” He shifted, keeping his hand moving on Sherlock’s hard-on, and pressing his own against Sherlock’s hip. He rocked against him and sighed. “Feels good.”

“Want lubricant?”

“Depends. Don’t need it. Not for this. But if you like it better with, we can get some out for you.”

“No. Fine for now. Maybe later.”

He was already seeping, though, and Lestrade thought the odds were they wouldn’t need lube unless they opted for penetration—and Lestrade was reluctant to start there with Sherlock. Too much pressure, and too much room for that big brain to come up with a million catastrophic disasters along the way. Lestrade was a smart man, by most people’s standards, and quite aware of how much sex was in the mind. With Sherlock’s mind?

He didn’t want to take chances. Sherlock had chosen him for first times—if you didn’t count John and whoever else wasn’t available but was trusted enough. Lestrade was guessing “not available” was Mycroft—gay, experienced, but off-limits and unlikely to break the incest taboo lightly…and with a metric shit-load of baggage for the two to dodge. What with one trusted male friend an inexperienced straight man newly married with a child on the way, and the other his own brother, Lestrade figured he was Sherlock’s best choice, even if it was a matter of process of elimination. What was it Sherlock said? “Eliminate the impossible, and what remains, no matter how improbable, must be true.”

Greg “Improbability” Lestrade. It sounded like a good porn name, now he thought of it.

Still, he might be the only remaining default choice—an aging policeman who’d been around the block, and couldn’t claim more than modest gay credits—but he figured he could do right by Sherlock, so long as he kept it simple and remembered that first times were for the beginner, not for the experienced partner. He glanced at Sherlock’s face. The younger man was sinking into deep arousal, eyes shut, mouth slightly open, breath coming deeper and more heavily with each stroke. There was a spangle of sweat beading his upper lip, clinging to the first faint traces of stubble.

Lestrade thought through his next move. “Lubricant where?”

“Drawer,” Sherlock gasped, and reached over, groping. He pulled the drawer of the bedside table open, fished out a tube, and handed it blind to Lestrade. “You’re going to…” His voice was nervous, even though he remained aroused.

“Not this time. Maybe a finger or two if you want. But first time? Shouldn’t be about if you want to top or bottom, be penetrated, do the penetrating. First time should just be a chance to figure out if you like coming with a man—like a man coming with you. Nice and safe and sexy, and no pressure on anyone. Plenty of ways to do that without getting into the fine points of buggering.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened, then, and he looked up as Lestrade rose up and straddled his thighs. A slow frown formed—a frown Lestrade had seen before as the consultant puzzled out a pattern from a crime scene. Understanding bloomed, then, and his hand snaked up, around Lestrade’s nape, and pulled him down into a deep kiss. Lestrade had to squirm to find a comfortable position, but then he sank into it. Sherlock’s hands slid gently down his back, cradled his buttocks, and his mouth and lips and tongue traced Lestrade’s, caressing, exploring—kisses like blessings. Like “thank you” without words. Like “I love you” before the thought could safely form.

“You’re…kind,” Sherlock said, sounding stunned. “Kind.”

Lestrade didn’t know what to say. He hoped no one else had been unkind to Sherlock. Not this way. Not making love. Sherlock had enough unhappy memories without sex being tainted for him, too.

Apparently Sherlock could read his fears in his muscles, in the line of his spine, in the motion of his lips. He pulled back, and said, “No. No, don’t worry. If anyone was unkind, it was me.” Then he kissed Lestrade again, and murmured. “Teach me to be better than I was…”

Lestrade chuffed his amusement, then pushed them apart long enough to apply lubricant on both full cocks. Just as they were different, their cocks were different: Sherlock’s slim, uncircumcised, so fair the blood showed through near-crimson. Lestrade’s was shorter, but fatter, with a classic circumcised mushroom head and a dusky blush. The gel was disturbingly green, looking like ichor or something peculiar from Sherlock’s lab experiments.

“Green ooze and tentacle sex,” Lestrade snorted, then folded himself back over Sherlock, matching prick to prick. He rocked slowly, and shivered at the feeling, and at Sherlock’s sudden, soft moan. His knees slipped between Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock, apparently daring, slid his legs up, locking them around Lestrade’s waist. Lestrade adjusted again, keeping the contact firm and clear.

He opened his eyes, watching Sherlock. The younger man’s eyes were shut, all his attention on the feeling of each stroke. Lestrade shifted, slipped one arm under Sherlock’s back, bracing himself on his elbow, then slid his hand between them, clamping both together, adding a stroke and twist to the motion.

Sherlock crooned and arched up, hips raking against Lestrade’s, voice rising.

“Good?”

“Good,” Sherlock gasped. “What…?”

“Just…enjoy…” Lestrade watched his lover’s face as the orgasm swelled, crested, and took him, crashing into his own as Sherlock came apart. It took him loud, that time, dredging a roar from somewhere deep and hungry, and he arched back into the sound, driving and driving, feeling the sticky heat jet out between them until he was empty and done. He fell across Sherlock’s chest, gasping.

One of Sherlock’s hands came up and traced lazy loops and spirals on his shoulders, stirring the hair, then moved up to his head, stroking him like a man stroking a pet cat. Lestrade sighed, content.

“Lovely,” Sherlock murmured, like a man considering a fine vintage of wine, or looking at a newly found Da Vinci. There was happiness, surprise, fascination in his tone. “That was…lovely.”

“Good,” Lestrade said, smiling against the scarred skin of Sherlock’s chest. He kissed along a straight, surgical line. “Acceptable first time?”

“Superb first time,” Sherlock said, then tipped him over onto the mattress. He glanced down, made a small face, and said, “Hmmm. Messy,” before looking down into Lestrade’s eyes. “Superb. Kind. Glorious. Fantastic.”

“I wish I’d known years ago that the way to get compliments out of you was to bring you off,” Lestrade said, grinning. He reached up and stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “Was that your problem? Too many years of celibacy?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock said, seriously. “Bit of a fool, I’m afraid. Convinced it would make me stupid.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Now _that_ was stupid.”

“Unfortunate side effect of reading too many Victorian theorists,” Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade snorted. “Only you…” He stretched, then. “Think it was good enough you’ll want to try it again with someone sometime?”

“Oh, yes. Ideally with you, sometime soon.”

“Then I didn’t wreck it for you?”

“Did you think you would?”

“Wasn’t sure. First time—not sure you really wanted it, even. Bi-curious isn’t the same thing as bi.”

“No.” He contemplated. “You didn’t ruin it. I wish…I wish I could be sure of the same.”

Lestrade propped himself on one elbow. “You were someone else’s first?”

“Not her first, exactly. More like her worst,” Sherlock said, moodily.

“Who?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Janine.”

“That girl you dated after John’s wedding? The bridesmaid?”

He nodded. “I…used her rather badly.”

“I thought the tabloids said—“ Lestrade flinched. “I should know better than to trust the tabloids. You didn’t sleep with her?”

“Worse,” Sherlock said, softly. “I…um. She expected sex, you see.”

“And?”

“And I gave her sex. Just not…me. We didn’t… I…” He was blushing. “It wasn’t fair. She thought it was medical, or even maybe that I was bi but not…”

Lestrade frowned. “Out with it.”

“No one should simply be…played with. Used. I didn’t…we didn’t… But I made sure she did. And I pretended I wanted it. Only I thought I didn’t.”

“Thought, sunshine?”

Sherlock swallowed, and rolled over, back to Lestrade. His voice went chill and clinical, much as though he were dissecting a crime. “I didn’t think I cared, you see. I thought I could pretend, and use her, and get to Magnussen, and then go away, and it wouldn’t matter. Not to _me._ But then Mary shot me. And then Janine broke up with me and—I wished… I almost wished. It hurt. I didn’t know why, but it hurt. She stood in the door of the hospital and said I shouldn’t have lied to her. That we could have been friends. And I thought about her lying in my arms, about making her…happy. And I wished it wasn’t done. But it was. And I still thought it wasn’t me. It hadn’t changed me.” He went dead silent, then.

Lestrade hunkered closer, slipping an arm around him. “Shhhhh. Shhhhh….”

“No. I want to finish.” Sherlock tensed. “We were at Appledor. He…Magnussen… he kept flicking John’s eye. Blackmailing him with Mary’s safety. Flicking. And Flicking. And flicking. Using him, as a thing, to get what he wanted. Playing with him. And I told John to stay still. To wait. I knew Mycroft would be coming. It was bad, but Mycroft—Mycroft could find a way around anything. He’d find a way. He had to find a way.” Sherlock was shaking. “I told John to hang on. To take it. Flick. Flick. It was so ugly. And then Magnussen said he’d done it to Janine. She’d been brave enough to keep her eyes open. Once.” His voice broke, and then he said, miserable and lost, “He did that to Janine.”

Lestrade gathered him close, mind spinning through everything he knew about Magnussen and the catastrophe at Appledor. He knew more than he was supposed to know. Mycroft had briefed him, himself broken and lost in the aftermath. But this added layer after layer to what Lestrade had known.

“She was your first lover,” he said, softly.

“No. I didn’t give her that.”

“No. She was your first lover. Technicalities don’t count, Sherlock. Not in relationships. They may count in terms of ‘do you get knocked up’ or ‘do you get AIDS.’ They may count in terms of ‘did you cheat on me.’ They don’t count when you start arguing that because you didn’t roger her into the mattress she wasn’t your first lover. The first woman who gave herself to you, trusted you that way. The first woman you held and saw orgasm. The first woman to believe you loved her like that. She was your first lover.”

Sherlock curled, a spidery-ball of misery again.

“Shhh, shhhh. I’m not blaming you. I’m trying to sort it out in my head. Your first lover, and you were…stupid enough to think it didn’t matter to you. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“But it did, right?”

Another nod.

“And when you knew Magnussen had abused her…you cracked. Last straw.”

“I’m not in love with her,” Sherlock husked. “I don’t feel that way.”

“Not the point, love. Some things cut deep. This is one.”

Sherlock leaned back against Lestrade. “Is it always that way?”

“No. But that’s more usual with people you don’t invest much time or care in.”

“I didn’t think I cared.”

“What did you do together?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Watched movies. Ate take-out. Went dancing…she’s a terrible dancer and I was teaching her. She took me sailing. Read books at each other. Slept.” He shivered. “Bathed. Touched. Kissed.”

“And you thought it was all make-believe,” Lestrade said, wonderingly.

Sherlock nodded.

Lestrade sighed. “Live and learn, love. But—next time? Remember the basics. You can only play a role that comes from what you have inside.”

“Psychopaths don’t.”

“Pychopaths are brilliant mimics. But you’re not a psychopath. Just a socially clumsy genius. There’s a difference, no matter how much you wish there weren’t.” He stroked the dark curls. “You’re not who you thought you were, sunshine. You never were. That’s why we love you, you idjit.”

Sherlock leaned back into him, pushing spine against chest, tipping his head back to brush against Lestrade’s. “Stay?”

“Sure,” Lestrade said. Then, “It was good, though?”

“Next time I’ll take notes,’ Sherlock said, tartly. “This time you’ll have to settle for organic evidence.”

They both laughed, then. Two showers later they lay in the dark and slept.


End file.
